The Kingdom of Shadows (11 page)

TEN

She listened to him, to the words of his voice, one after another. Coming from a great distance, as though she were listening to him on the radio, as though she weren’t with him in the great high-ceilinged room at all. A dream . . . that was what it felt like, as she closed her eyes and let his voice flow past, wrapping itself around her, a familiar embrace.

But different, as well. That was how she knew it wasn’t the radio, it wasn’t the sharp whip of the Reich’s Propaganda Minister lacerating the enemies of the German
Volk
, or describing the present and coming glories that the
Führer
would bestow upon the faithful, upon all the uplifted, eager faces. Joseph’s other voice, the private one, almost a whisper. Meant for only one other person; meant for her. The voice she had heard when she had lain in his arms, his bare chest against her breasts, crushing her to him, as though one body could devour another. His mouth close to her ear, so his voice could tell of his worship, his love for the golden thing he’d won, the angel that had descended to the heavy earth and the gaze of men, his gaze.

Marte
 . . . The last word he would speak, before he would close his eyes, the lashes brushing her face, letting his other senses drink in the scent and presence of her. Her name, an incantation, a simple faith . . .

“There have been things said. Things about us.” Now Joseph didn’t look at her as he spoke; he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the long delicate fingers squeezed bloodless in his anguish. He gazed across the
Wilhelmplatz
at the dark shape of the Reich Chancellery, and the night sky beyond it. “The lies . . . the whispering . . . all of it, again and again.”

How silly of him – she could almost smile to herself as she listened. They weren’t lies, they were the truth. The things that people said, the whispers that circled about her like the dark shadows of birds. Women on the street pointing her out to each other as she passed by, the actors and crews on the film sets watching her and then turning away with shrugs and single raised eyebrows, sharing their cynical knowledge of how things worked in this world. Everybody knew the truth about them, about her and Joseph. Had he spoken so many lies himself, that he could no longer tell the difference?

“They have the ear of the
Führer
. They’ve poisoned his mind . . . against you.” He lowered his head, his narrow shoulders slumping forward. “Marte . . .” Her name, that invocation again, but spoken this time in a voice that could barely emerge from his throat, as though it were his last breath. “We must not see each other again. Ever . . .”

She wondered whether she should go to him, wrap her arms around him, rock him against the cradle of her breast. “But that’s what you’ve said before.”

“This time . . . this time, it must be. Forever.” Joseph looked over his shoulder at her, his face drawn taut, cheeks hollowed, the outline of his skull visible beneath. “That is the
Führer
’s decree.”

Forever
 . . . She closed her eyes, drifting away. That was funny as well, the way men said such things. As though
forever
meant anything at all. Joseph was as sworn to the service of
Härte
as any SS officer, as the father of her lost child was; they were all soldiers of this new world, cold and perfect. But that was just armor over the soft, sentimental part inside them.
Forever
 . . . Women lost things forever, never seen again, but they went on. They learned how to.

She felt his hand against the side of her face, the fingers tangling through her hair and brushing the curve of her jaw. She opened her eyes and saw him gazing down at her.

“I made an offer.” This close, Joseph kept his voice a whisper, soft as though they were in bed together. “To
him
.” She knew he meant the
Führer
. “I offered to resign from the Ministry . . . and as
Gauleiter
of Berlin . . . all my posts. He could appoint me as Ambassador to Japan. I would leave Germany . . .
we
would leave. We could live together, in Tokyo. There would be no scandal then; we’d be far away, and people would forget about us.” Joseph’s hand moved down her neck, across the curve of her shoulder. “Magda and the children – they would be provided for. And even they would forget, eventually. Everyone would forget about us. And we would be together.”

“But he doesn’t want you to leave.” She leaned her head against his arm. “He needs you.” That was the truth, even though he had said it himself. The
Führer
needed his Propaganda Minister, had always needed him, even before he had become the
Führer
, when he had been nothing but the head of a tiny political group – brawling war veterans and professional anti-Semites – breaking heads at
Bierstube
meetings and squabbling in the red mud of the dying Weimar republic. Joseph had created the
Führer 
– even that one word, his title, that had been another of his propaganda genius’s masterstrokes. “He needs you even more than I do.”

He stayed silent, but she felt the tremor in his hand, his fingers curling against her skin.

“You can never leave him . . .”

“I could.” Joseph’s voice came from far away, though he was standing next to her. “I could leave everything . . . my family . . . my home . . . to be with you. But there is no place that we could go. No place where we would be left alone. Where
he
would leave us alone.”

Now Joseph was lying to her again. She knew that wasn’t true; people could always disappear, become invisible, become nothing. What he really meant was that there was no place they could go, where he would still be powerful, even feared, and have so much wealth at his command. How long would he have been happy as Ambassador to Japan? Even if that had been possible, if the
Führer
had said yes . . . it was too far away, too remote from the machinery that he had put in place, the gears that ground out the rallies and radio broadcasts and films, the precisely cut teeth that meshed with those inside the nation’s hearts. How could he leave that, his other love, the true one, for her?

He had left her side and gone back to stand at the tall window, looking down at the street and the world beyond, folded in night.

“It would be best if you were to leave Berlin.” Joseph had gained control of himself again, his words taut and clipped. But he couldn’t look at her; she knew he wouldn’t be able to, that his voice and self-possession would break, he would rush to her and pull her to her feet, crushing her in his embrace. “It would be best for both of us. The production of your next film, and the ones after that – they can all be moved to the remote UFA facilities. You needn’t worry about what will happen to you; I’ll make sure that you’re taken care of . . .”

She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He didn’t realize, none of them ever did, how things were. Men thought they pushed the gears along, that they were in control, and really – they didn’t know. About the other gears, the other machinery that was already in motion. Joseph didn’t know.

Leave Berlin . . .

Now she was free to go to America. That would solve all their problems. And Joseph would be free of her, free of this love that interfered with the workings of his glorious destiny.

And he didn’t even know yet. Soon he would, but for now, in this moment, he was ignorant. So in command, but unaware of the other gears, the other machinery that had circled around him, his own deliverance.

She could have laughed, softly and sadly, and it would have been all right.

The laughter would have been drowned out by another sound, the rasping drone of an airplane engine. A light had appeared, a brighter star moving in the night sky, passing above the city.

The noise grew louder. The sky seemed to be full of airplanes, flooded with them, their engines massed into one great roaring. Fiery light surged up and across Joseph’s face, as though the streets below had suddenly been wrapped in flame; he turned toward her, the cords in his neck straining, his eyes wild, as he shouted something she couldn’t hear . . .

* * *

“Are you all right?”

 

The words, spoken right at her ear, brought her up from her sleep and the dreaming into which she had fallen. Dreaming of Joseph, and the last time she’d been with him. Now, she turned away from von Behren in the seat beside hers, his hand laid solicitously upon her forearm, and toward the airplane’s small, rounded window. Through it, she could see the flat stretches of the Templehof landing strips, the other airplanes arrayed near the low shapes of the hangars. One had already taken off and was mounting toward the clouds, sunlight flashing off its prop blades.

 

“Marte –”

 

She could barely hear him; this airplane, the one in which they sat, shivered with the vibrations from its own engines. Soon enough it would head along the grassy runway, picking up speed, and then it would be in the air itself, making for Paris. A few rows ahead of her and von Behren, the American producer sat, the one who had come all the way from Hollywood to fetch her.
Herr
Wise was reading an English-language newspaper; she could decipher some of the words in the headlines – von Behren had already begun teaching her the new language. She would
hit the ground running
, as he had smiled and put it the way the Americans themselves would say. There had been time for one quick celebratory dinner at the Adlon, she and her director and
Herr
Wise, the two men lifting their champagne glasses toward her. To her new career, her new life. Wise had nodded and smiled, agreeing with von Behren – by the time she got there, to the land of the nodding palm trees and the eternal sunshine, she’d be speaking English as though it were her native language. She was a quick study, and words were all the same to her, lines to be learned. Easy when one had nothing to hold on to, nothing inside that would get in the way.

 

That had been the celebration, with loud voices and laughter all around them. She had spent the rest of the night packing, to be ready for the morning flight. No wonder she was so tired, drifting into sleep.

 

The engine noise grew louder, filling the airplane’s interior. The world outside shifted as the airplane began to roll, taxiing toward its appointed runway.

 

Another motion caught her eye, at the edge of the field. The tassel traced across her hand as she lifted the curtain away from the small square window. A black Mercedes limousine swerved onto the field, coming to a halt parallel to the airplane’s progress. Two small swastika flags trailed from the automobile’s front fenders. She recognized it; she had ridden in it herself, many times, sinking deep into the plush leather upholstery. A pale visage showed behind the rolled-down window, a piercing gaze directed toward the airplane. The dark eyes connected straight to Marte’s own, a line stretching to an invisible thread between the man and the woman.

 

Von Behren grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. He had spotted the Mercedes as well, the gleam of its black metal. There was still time, for everything to go wrong – the
Reichsminister
could have changed his mind, become just a man again, instead of the
Führer
’s loyal servant. He might have listened to the orders from his heart and thrown away everything else, the wealth, the power – all for her. A pack of motorcycles from the Berlin
Polizei
could come roaring from behind the limousine, swoop across the field, block the airplane from traveling any farther. The pilot might already be cutting the engines, obeying a last-minute command from the airfield’s tower . . .

 

It could all happen, in a moment, in the blink of an eye . . .

 

Nothing happened.

 

None of the other passengers had noticed the black Mercedes at the edge of the field. The face at the limousine’s window grew smaller with distance, until it was lost behind them. The American folded his newspaper to another page and went on reading.

 

When the airplane was safely aloft, banking against the clouds, von Behren let go of her hand.

 

“Everything will be all right now.” He patted her forearm. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine . . .”

 

She turned away, gazing out the small window beside her. The earth fell far below them.

 

It didn’t matter. If everything would be all right or not. Things would happen, the gears of the world’s machinery, seen and unseen, would turn regardless. What would happen only mattered to the other ones, the ones who existed, who were real.

 

Not her.

 

She leaned her brow against the cold window, falling from one dream to another, endlessly . . .